Tavern Tales
by FlareX3
Summary: Jagun is a lawless Frontier World. Fortuna, its only city, is a bloody monument to greed. In this hell on the Eastern Fringe, beyond the light of the Astronomican, five friends share a few drinks.


Chapter 1: The Simple Devil

* * *

"Are you nervous?"

Elyot glanced at his companion. She had her face tilted towards him at an awkward angle, an equally crooked smile playing across her lips. Cool gray eyes regarded him from under a delicate frame of close-cropped crimson hair; they were alight with mischief. Elyot scoffed.

"Only a little," he said, before bringing his attention back to the building before him.

It was an inn known as The Simple Devil, though the warm glow and wholesome smell that wrapped around the establishment like a cloak clashed with this macabre title. The structure itself was sturdily constructed; of what materials, Elyot could not guess: lazily applied paint, gaudy and thick, obscured the truth. A shield-shaped sign hung over the building's entrance, emblazoned with the inn's name and namesake. Like the paintjob, it was crudely done.

"You sure this place is safe, Camilla?" Elyot asked, serious.

Its welcoming atmosphere aside, The Simple Devil was on the Old Wall, and evening was coming quickly. Elyot had heard enough stories about what happened outside of the Inner City in broad daylight; he was not keen on testing their truth at night.

"I wouldn't exactly call any place in Fortuna 'safe,' Elyot. And I'm even less inclined to do so now," Camilla replied, gesturing at the deepening shadows surrounding them for emphasis.

"You know what I mean."

"Are you suggesting we turn back?"

The witty retort that had been about to leave Elyot's lips promptly turned around, curled into a fetal position, and died in his throat. He felt his gaze drawn towards the ruins. Though veiled by distance and darkness, Elyot could still sense their twisted silhouettes looming ominously over the city, over him.

He suppressed a shiver.

Elyot felt no shame in admitting it: Fortuna scared him. It was a veritable hellhole, haphazardly built up and tenuously held together by the same driving force—greed. Here, human life was spent like currency, a regular offering unto the altar of enterprise. Every day, the city was overrun with monsters: thieves and thugs; mercenaries and murderers; all of them hungry for a taste of the ruins' wealth. Only at night were Fortuna's streets free from these vicious men and women.

But there were monsters all the same.

"We're stuck here," Elyot said. It was not a question.

Camilla responded anyway: "Yup, at least until tomorrow. So buck up. We're here to have fun, remember?"

She punched him on the arm. The gesture was supposed to be reassuring; it bothered Elyot. He realized Camilla probably hit harder than he did.

'_Sblood, this'll be a long night_, Elyot thought.

With a defeated shrug, he followed Camilla into the building and did his best to ignore the scuffling he could now hear coming from somewhere close by.

* * *

Elyot jumped slightly at the sudden pressure; Camilla's hand, hidden behind the voluminous folds of her robe's sleeves, had latched onto his own with a vice-like grip. She gave Elyot's hand an empathic squeeze, but did not look at him. It was a subtle and calculated move; nevertheless, every eye in the inn was on them.

Slowly, Elyot began to uncoil the tension from his body. His hand, fortunately still covered by Camilla, relented; he released his hold on the handle of his shock maul. Willing his face into a nonchalant mask, he pretended he had intended to simply scratch at his side. It was an unconvincing feint, but it was enough: nobody was in the mood for a bloodbath, not yet.

It was not long before the Simple Devil came to life again with the raucous din of its patrons enjoying a decent drink or telling a tall tale. The warm embrace of alcohol and company quickly smothered the tension that had filled the room only a heartbeat before. Camilla and Elyot faded into the background, forgotten at the door.

"Holy Throne, have you lost your mind?" Camilla hissed at Elyot once she was certain the threat of violence had passed.

"Sorry," Elyot returned softly; he was still shaken, still transfixed by what had startled him into action.

No more than ten paces away, seated at a table—and even eating from silverware—in a strange mockery of human civility, was a group of small, sallow-skinned humanoids. They called themselves "gathun," but Elyot, like many others, refused to sully his mouth with an alien tongue. He preferred the nickname, "goblin." It was a personally insulting and culturally insensitive moniker; Elyot longed to shake the hand of the genius wordsmith who had first coined it. Elyot was not some honorless peddler of the Trade Guild trying to worm his way into the gathi's graces; he would not hide his disgust behind some veneer of civility. For xenos scum like them, comparison to the diminutive grotesques of ancient Terran legend was charity enough.

He had not forgotten.

One of the creatures glanced in their direction. It flashed the pair a sardonic grin, revealing a set of needlelike teeth, before arching its brow in challenge. Elyot looked away. He was ashamed; he was furious. However, he knew the price of hubris here.

"C'mon, El," Camilla prodded him. Her voice had softened, but there was an undercurrent of steel in its tone.

Considering the way Camilla was matching the goblin's mocking look with a hateful glare of her own and the ominous mental static that had begun to pull at the edge of his senses, it was clear to Elyot that his friend had not forgotten either.

Taking in a shaky breath, Elyot offered Camilla an apologetic smile. "Right, lead the way."

* * *

Whether it was calculated showmanship or actual ease, Elyot had to admit that the man before him certainly made an impression. Dressed in frugal clothes of subdued hues, the sun-bronzed stranger sat alone at a table close to the inn's heart, engrossed in the task of polishing—of all things—a longsword. Camilla stood quietly a few paces to the side, unperturbed by the absurd anachronism, with the largest grin Elyot had ever seen on her firmly fixed across her face.

"I was worried that I would've had to say, 'goodbye,' before I had the chance to even say, 'hello,'" the man announced abruptly, looking up.

Elyot suddenly found himself staring into a pair of hard, green eyes, which left him strangely on edge. The scrutiny lasted for only a moment before the man turned his attention to Camilla, but Elyot had recognized the sharp expertise. Elyot knew he stood before a warrior.

"Oh," Camilla exclaimed with uncharacteristic girlishness. "And where was this touching concern earlier?"

"That "touching concern" is why I'm sitting here polishing my sword."

"Hah. Cute. Your partner finally rubbing off on you? Metaphorically speaking, this time, of course."

Much to Elyot's surprise, hearty laughter erupted from the ostensibly grimfaced stranger.

"Actually, I took it from your friend's playbook," he said through dying fits of laughter, nodding in Elyot's direction. "Perhaps not as subtle, but that's not saying much."

The sharpness had not disappeared from the man's eyes, but it had been joined by something else—warmth. "It's good to see you, Camilla."

"Likewise. So, where's—"

"Camilla!" came a new voice from somewhere behind the pair, disturbingly close.

Elyot managed to refrain from reaching for his weapon once again, but he nevertheless whirled around on instinct, his movements made awkward by both surprise and haste. His efforts went unrewarded: the space behind him was empty.

With a stiff nod to a group of curious onlookers several tables down, Elyot turned back around. He found that in the brief span of time he had spent humiliating himself, the newcomer had managed to bypass him completely, deposit a large tray of drinks onto the table, and wrap Camilla in an affectionate embrace. Elyot felt a tic beginning to develop on his face; he did his best to discreetly massage it away.

Like his counterpart, the new arrival wore practical clothing of muted grays and browns, looking more prepared to brave the wilds than down some alcohol. Unlike his counterpart, no warrior's air surrounded this man. His deeply tanned face was alight with joy, his mouth moving with dizzying speed as he bombarded Camilla with comments and questions whose answers he did not even wait to hear.

With no little effort, Camilla managed to peel the newcomer off of her long enough to speak. Elyot did not catch the words, but the man's reaction told him enough. With a laugh, and a look that was somehow both charming and sheepish, the man stepped back.

"Sorry 'bout that," he said, though his tone was hardly apologetic. The second stranger turned towards Elyot, the smile he had on his face since he arrived growing wider. "And here he is: the firebrand that nearly got us all killed."

Elyot felt his face flush.

The other man moved towards him, at some point—unnoticed by Elyot—joined by his companion. The two men moved together with an almost mechanical precision, quick and quiet. Before Elyot could react, the two had taken up position on either of his sides; expertly flanked, Elyot knew he could not move without exposing himself. He tried to find Camilla, but found his view blocked by one of the men's extended arm. Elyot raised his own arm to block the incoming strike, readying himself for combat. But the blow never came; the limb remained fixed in the air a comfortable distance away.

The second man, the arm's owner, grunted. "That's a unique form of greeting. A type of salute?"

"Ah," Elyot replied lamely.

Elyot's opposite did not seem to notice the incongruous response. Giving Elyot a hasty approximation of the so-called "salute," the man went on. "Anyway, on to introductions! I'm known as Rick Johnson, adventurer. And this here's my stalwart partner, peerless warrior and truest of friends…"

There was a pause.

Then, with a poorly concealed sigh, the other man curtly said, "John Rickson."

There was another pause.

"Ah," Elyot repeated. He felt very tired. "I think I'll sit down," he said, and, after unceremoniously walking through the newly introduced pair, he grabbed a chair at the table and did just that.

Crossing his arms in frustrated embarrassment, John said: "I told you those names were a piss-poor idea."

"What d'you mean?" Rick shot back. "We just blew him off his feet."

* * *

The beer was a welcome refreshment. Brewed at the beginning of Harvest, the drink carried with it the hallmark flavors of its season—a distinctive biting spiciness with just a ghost of honeyed aftertaste. Elyot quickly downed the rest of his mug.

He currently sat on the other side of the table from Rick. To Rick's disappointment, Camilla had chosen a seat to Elyot's right. John had reclaimed his spot from earlier, placing him almost directly across from Camilla. It was an oddly rectangular formation for a circular table, but Elyot understood why: they were missing someone.

"The Watch will be out soon," Camilla said absently.

"Not for another hour," John responded.

"No word at all from the old man?"

"'Rick' said he spoke to him a week back, before his jump."

"Aye," Rick cut in. "He was fine as far as I could tell. A little gruff, but I think that was just 'cause he was talkin' to me."

Camilla was silent for a moment. Then, in a flurry of emerald cloth, she downed her drink as well. "Well, I suppose I can't complain. Seeing you two again is miraculous enough."

"Yes, that's right," John said with a nostalgic chuckle. "We both thought you'd be a white-haired old woman the next time we saw you."

"Or dead," Camilla finished for him.

Seeing his friend slipping back into a morbid state of mind, Elyot spoke up: "Wait, Camilla, are you a Natural?" In truth, he was curious as well.

"Yes," she stated simply.

"You were workin' with Camilla all this time and you didn't know?" Rick asked.

"To be fair, it hasn't been all that long," Camilla said. "The topic just never came up. I thought it was obvious, all things considered."

"All things considered?" Elyot prompted.

"The Imperium isn't very fond of wyrds, especially those who haven't been bonded. And interstellar travel isn't a very good way to stay inconspicuous. People like me don't often get a grand, new life among the stars if they go offworld. Just a barbeque."

"Oh."

"Plus, I'm sure even selling my immortal soul wouldn't be enough to grab me a spot on a third-rate system transport, let alone a Warp-capable ship," Camilla went on. "Damned, no-good, price-gouging—"

"So, what's your story?" Rick said quickly, turning to Elyot.

_Smooth_, Elyot thought. "I worked alongside Camilla on a Guild job. She was the one who hired me, actually. When she left her employer, I went with her."

"Contractual problems?" John asked the red-haired woman.

"Something like that," Camilla declared tersely. "I'm still working on hammering out the issues."

"Right," Rick said, turning back to Elyot. "So, will your story be _your story_? For tonight, I mean."

"Camilla already claimed it on our way here. I'll have to think of something else."

"Well, think hard. I've got quite the tale to tell, and I don't want any of you feelin' too bad once I'm through."

"Oh, is that so," John exclaimed. "Then I suppose you won't mind going first?"

Closing his eyes, Rick shook his head sagely. "Rickson, my good man, you should know better. The best stories, like the best meals, must be carefully prepared. Here, anticipation's the choicest of seasonings."

Camilla laughed. "Fine, but in return for our patience, you're booze mule for the night."

"A fair exchange," Rick said, and, sweeping up their empty mugs in a brassy half-bow, he set off.

"I suppose I'll go first," Camilla stated after she lost sight of Rick behind a nasty brawl between two groups of guests as well as one particularly imperious barmaid.

"Are you sure, Camilla? I've got my story ready," John said, watching the ensuing fight with mild interest.

"It's alright. You all already know what mine's about, so there's no point letting it 'marinate' in suspense." Camilla noticed Rick already returning with their drinks. "And besides, this was my idea to begin with. Might as well start with me."

Sparing one last look at the inn's entrance and finding nothing, Camilla took a breath and began her tale.

* * *

**Author's Note:** Firstly, I'd like to thank those of you who bothered reading—or even just scrolling—far enough down to see this. I hope the trek wasn't too troublesome.

Anyway, I just wanted to use this space to contextualize this story. Put simply, it's just a flimsy excuse to string together a few unrelated vignettes. I needed some practice writing, but I have an unfortunate weakness to long, cohesive narratives. This seemed like a good way around that.

On a more dignified note, I also thought that this could be a fun experiment. 40k has an incredibly rich background. Sadly, I think too much of it is left unexplored. As much as I love reading about the heroics of the Imperial Guard and the Adeptus Astartes—those guys rock - go humanity—I'd like to think that there's more to see than just bolter-porn in an "empire of over a million worlds." What about stories revolving around drama or mystery? Hell, how about a proper horror story? I'd like to read stories like that too.

Am I stepping up? Not really: it would take better authors than I to do something like this right. But like I said, I need practice. So, until someone writes a story that tickles my worldbuilder's fancy in all the right ways—if you catch my drift—I'll see if I can write an interesting story about a war torn galaxy sans the war. Or without too much of it, at least.


End file.
